


gotta get away from here, somewhere far away from here

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Cousin Incest, Drama, F/M, Underage - Freeform, a love story between jonsa's son and gendrya's daughter, but happy ending bc i don't how to write anything but that, feat arya not accepting jon and sansa, from like s6 probs, just tagging it bc this starts when robb is 8 and argella is 5, though nothing specific, wow can't believe i can hit two birds one stone with that tag...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “I don’t understand,” Arya mutters under her breath.“I think it’s cute,” Sansa supplies, lifting her head from Jon to give her sister a small smile.“Of course you would,” Arya says, and it sounds almost bitter.Sansa frowns, then moves away from Jon to curl her arm around her sister’s shoulder.“It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Sansa says gently, shooting a lingering glance over her shoulder to Jon. “Truly. And it’s much easier to fall in love with a cousin than one might think.”/Jon and Sansa's son, Robb, and Arya and Gendry's daughter, Argella, through the years.Jon didn't think they'd see a war fought for love again, not after his parents. But apparently his son has inherited more Targaryen traits than he'd always assumed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Abi117](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abi117/gifts).

> i promised abi this story like ??? 4 months ago ?? i'm FINALLY following through my love, please bear with all my angst for the happy ending that i promise is coming! 
> 
> i'd like to say that i expect this story to be about 20k, but we all know what happened the last time i promised that ;) 
> 
> unbeta'd 
> 
> enjoy! x

The day Robb is born, the bells of Winterfell ring from dusk to dawn.

For those who remember, it is much like the day that Robb’s mother, Sansa, was born.

Sansa had a difficult pregnancy, and an even more difficult birth, and Maester Wolkan tells she and Jon that another child would be likely fatal to both mother and babe. The news brings only more celebration for Robb Stark, the heir to the Northern Throne, the next King of Winter.

A cherished babe, by parents and Kingdom alike.

Three years later, in the Kingdom of the Stormlands, the bells of Storm’s End stay silent when Queen Arya welcomes her daughter Argella into the world. A child for she and Gendry, her pregnancy had been a quiet and uncelebrated affair. There are whispers of excitement through the Lords and people, but the Kingdom is only newly established, a surprise outcome following the Wars, and independence to them is full bellies and warm beds – it is not a cause they’ve fought for, not something that means riotous celebration or excitement.

Robb grows up surrounded by other post-war children, living in the North happy and carefree, much like his parents when they were his age. He is curious and smart, yet an exuberant child, with the playfulness and restlessness of his aunt, and the keen and intelligent eye of his mother. He inherits his father’s stormy gaze and disposition, and as he grows the people whisper that he will be a handsome man and a kind husband to whomever the lucky girl is to be.

Argella isn’t quite quiet and subdued, both parents far too adventurous for a quiet nature to be truly passed to her, but she is will mannered and studious, and Arya once remarks that she reminds her of her sister, though without the spoilt air about her. She plays well with other children, but if Arya can’t find her she’s more likely to be hidden away in her room drawing or playing with her figurines alone than she is to be muddying her skirts and trousers with the other children.

Argella isn’t joined by a sibling for almost five years, but that doesn’t happen until after she meets Robb for the first time.

“What’s aunt Arya like?” Robb asks curiously from beside Jon.

Jon pauses running his whetstone down Longclaw. “She’s a fearsome warrior,” Jon says. “Perhaps a greater swordsman than me.”

Robb shakes his hand. “No, I know the stories,” he says. Jon’s lips twitch at the impatient tone of his son. “The Princess that was Promised, the Night King Slayer, Queen of the Stormlands. But what’s she _like_?_” _

Jon blinks. He puts his whetstone down, then Longclaw, and purses his lips, turning to Robb. A light summer snow drifts down around them, the godswood peaceful and quiet.

“Well, she’s as fierce as the stories paint her to be,” Jon replies slowly, thinking of the sister he hasn’t seen in so many years. The last time he saw her is tainted by the argument she’d had with Sansa, the bitter words that spilt from her lips, but Jon still longs for her – though the her that precipitated what happened between them all. He dearly misses the sister she was before. The sister he’d had an affinity with, who had been so like him and so unlike him at the same time. The one he’d spent years dreaming about being reunited with, the one he’d fought beside, the one who had slain Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen and turned to him afterwards as if seeking his approval – or perhaps his forgiveness, he still hasn’t quite figured that one out. “Kind, though.”

“Like mother?” Robb asks eagerly, blinking up at Jon.

“A different sort of kind,” Jon answers, eyes drifting around the godswood. Robb has always been a curious person, and about the smartest child Jon’s ever come across. He often feels outmatched by his eight year old, but as Robb has grown older and only become more curious and even smarter, Jon has learnt to just answer each question Robb asks as best he can, and direct him to Sam or the library when he can’t. “While your mother has a gentle and sweet kindness, your aunt’s is more . . . she’s very loyal, and very protective. She’s kind in that she loves fiercely, and is very giving to those that she loves. She’s a true warrior, and a very intense woman.”

Jon still believes all these things, despite no longer being on the receiving end of her gentler nature.

“If aunt Arya learnt how to use a sword, why didn’t mother?” Robb asks, reaching his hand to try and catch snowflakes. Jon knows better than to think that Robb’s preoccupation with the snow means he isn’t listening.

“Your mother isn’t that kind of fighter,” Jon replies. “Arya was always restless as a child, and she always sought to prove herself with weapons. Her father encouraged her, but women fighting wasn’t common at the time. Your mother didn’t want to fight, and their father wouldn’t have expected it of her.”

Robb nods, taking the information in slowly. Jon leans down to pick up Longclaw and his whetstone again, sliding the sharpening tool along the edge in even and precise rings. Robb watches with clever eyes, his gaze following the stone with each pull.

When Jon thinks that Robb has forgotten the conversation entirely, his son picks it back up again.

“What does she look like?” Robb questions.

Jon ponders that for a moment, not pausing his work this time. “Well, she kind of looks like us. Dark hair, grey eyes.”

“Because you’re siblings?”

Jon understands his son’s confusion. He may be an extremely clever child, but Jon has called Arya _sister _enough times for their relation to be unclear.

“No, we’re only cousins,” Jon explains. Robb likely knows that, but Jon has never properly sat down and explained to Robb his relationship with the Starks like this before. “But I grew up beside her as her brother, and even though we’re not truly siblings it still feels like we are.”

“Oh,” Robb says. Jon wonders for only a second whether Robb understands what he’s tried to explain, but he wonders no further when Robb continues, “but you never thought of mother as a sister?”

Jon chuckles, surprised yet again at Robb’s quick mind. While Jon thinks he’s asking one question, he’s actually asking another, trying to get to the bottom of some puzzle he’s not been able to figure out himself.

“Your mother and I had a complicated relationship as children,” Jon says. “But no, she was not really a sister. I loved her, as you always love family, and she loved me the same way, but we weren’t really siblings.”

Robb goes quiet again, and Jon flips Longclaw over, starting down the other side. Again his son remains so quiet that Jon thinks he has no further questions, but Robb can be unpredictable sometimes. He’s just as likely to silently get up and walk away, bored with an unstimulating situation, as he is to ask a completely unexpected question.

He must be in the mood to do the second one today, because he then asks Jon, “Maester Sam said today that highborn often get betrothed. Am I betrothed?”

Jon blinks, startled, then slowly shakes his head. “No, your mother and I didn’t want that for you. We wanted you to marry someone you love.”

“Well I’ve never met her, but I love Argella, because she’s family. And we’re only cousins, like you and mother._ And _she’s a princess too. I could be betrothed to her.”

Jon’s whetstone pauses halfway down Longclaw.

Jon didn’t even know Robb knew what a betrothal _was _until a moment ago, and now he’s talking about marrying Argella? No, there’s no way that Robb has come up with such a notion himself.

“Did someone say that to you?” Jon questions. “That you should marry Argella?”

“Well Maester Sam said today that if I had been betrothed, she might have been who you and mother picked.”

Ah. It seems relatively harmless, Jon supposes.

“Truthfully, you likely would not have been,” Jon replies slowly, trying to work out how to explain it to Robb, imparting the reasoning behind their decision without being too serious. “We would have been more likely to organise a marriage within our Kingdom, strengthen our relationships with one of our more difficult Lords. But you see why we didn’t want that for you. You’re not a bargaining tool, Robb, and your mother and I refuse to treat you as such.”

Robb nods slowly, taking in Jon’s answer and turning it over in his mind. Jon doesn’t say anything more for a few moments, letting Robb think it over, and he continues his strokes down Longclaw.

“Besides,” Jon says finally, “I highly doubt your aunt would have agreed.”

“Why not?” Robb asks curiously, perking up at the mention of Arya.

“She’s as against betrothal’s as we are,” Jon says, and without thinking he continues, “but she also doesn’t really like that your mother and I married, because we’re related.”

“But you’re not _actually _brother and sister,” Robb says earnestly, brows pinching together. He looks so much like Jon in that moment that his breath catches in his throat. “That would be weird. You’re just cousins.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees, clearing his throat. He probably shouldn’t have said anything about this, likely an insight into his relationship with Sansa that Robb didn’t ever really need to know, but he knows he can’t just stop talking now. Robb will never stop asking if he does. “But your aunt doesn’t really see me as just a cousin, and she doesn’t understand how your mother can either. It’s very complicated, Robb. But your aunt is excited to meet you, probably more excited than you are to meet her.”

“I’m excited to meet Argella,” Robb says, smiling widely. Jon breathes a small sigh of relief, glad he’s managed to steer the conversation away from he and Sansa. “I always wanted siblings. Maybe she’ll be like a sister to me, like aunt Arya is to you.”

“Sure,” Jon agrees easily, smiling down at Robb. “I don’t see why not.”

Robb rocks on his heels, barely able to contain his excitement. Sansa lays her hand on his shoulder, stilling his movement.

“Be calm, my love,” Sansa murmurs.

Robb glances up at her, then back to the gate. “I’m so excited.”

“I know, honey. They may be your family, but your aunt and uncle are still a King and Queen, alright? Remember your manners.”

Robb frowns at the gate, then back up at her.

“But you’re a Queen and I don’t have to have my manners with you,” he pouts.

Sansa raises a brow at him. That is most certainly not the case, and he knows it. He takes a very informal tone with she and Jon in privacy, but in public they must all remember their propriety, and Robb is no different.

“Robb,” she chastises, squeezing his shoulder again. “I’ve not see them in almost ten years. Until they give you permission to call them by their names, you must address them via their position.”

Robb sighs, shoulder slumping. “Yes, mother,” he says, kicking at a stone beneath his foot dejectedly.

Beside her, Jon smothers a small laugh. She throws him a narrow glare, trying to get him to back her up, and he clears his throat and says, “They’ll be here soon, Robb. Not much longer, then you’ll get to meet her.”

Ah, yes. Jon had told her that Robb had expressed a particular excitement to meet his cousin, Argella, and the ideas that Sam had planted in his head about betrothal. Sansa hasn’t given it much thought, truthfully, for a variety of reasons, most of which boil down to the fact that Robb isn’t a particularly romantic and fanciful person - but also the fact that if Robb’s first crush is on someone who Sansa is sure is going to be kind, then she can think of worst things.

Arya and Gendry enter Winterfell atop their horses, a little girl on the saddle in front of Gendry. The three dismount, Gendry taking his daughter by the waist and lifting her down.

Arya’s hair has grown out slightly, though the top half of it is still pulled back in a tight bun. She’s in her trousers and leathers, sword strapped to her hip, and she looks both entirely the same and completely different. Gendry is more noticeably different, grey peppered in his hair, lines etched around his eyes and mouth, but still tall and broad-shouldered as ever.

Their daughter is absolutely adorable, dark hair swinging down her back, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. Sansa loves her immediately.

Ten years is a long time to go between seeing someone, even if that person is your sister, and especially when the last time one of those sisters was telling the other that they didn’t agree with their choice of husband.

Sansa still smarts from such an insult, and there’s a small part of her that wonders what Arya is going to say now that she’s had a child with Jon, but – there’s no time left to wonder.

Arya gives her an easy smile, and greets her with, “Your Grace.”

Sansa curtseys in response, the same title falling from her own lips.

When she rises, Arya rocks her heels. Sansa hesitates for a moment, then decides to be the one that steps forward. Arya doesn’t hug her tightly, like Sansa wishes she would, but it’s a hug all the same.

Gendry gives her a hug himself, pulling back with a sad and apologetic smile, and then he introduces Argella.

“Your Grace,” Argella says, lowering herself into quite a well formed curtsey in Sansa’s opinion.

A smile plays on Sansa’s lips, and she squats down, trying to avoid dirtying her knees but feeling the distinct desire to greet her niece like she’s family, not just another member of royalty.

“Princess Argella,” Sansa murmurs. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. You may call me aunt Sansa, if you wish.”

Argella beams widely, then throws her arms around Sansa’s neck in a fierce hug.

“Hello aunt Sansa,” she says happily.

Sansa smiles, then stands, lifting Argella into her arms easily. She eyes Gendry and Arya for a moment, to see if they disagree with her informality, but Gendry just looks relieved and Arya smiles as well.

“This our son, Robb Stark,” Sansa introduces, placing her spare hand on Robb’s shoulder.

Arya’s smile looks slightly more forced, though over his name or his existence, Sansa can’t be sure. Sansa’s arm tightens slightly around her niece for a moment, before she reminds herself that everything is fine. She’s no need to worry. It may have been ten years, but Sansa doesn’t think Arya is going to make a scene in front of both their courts.

Robb bows before them, like he has before every other monarch they’ve hosted at Winterfell, and it is Gendry rather than Arya that greets him and tells Robb to call him uncle.

Sansa’s eyes slide up to Arya, to see what she’ll say, and for a few moments Arya says nothing.

“Aye,” she agrees finally, easily, as if nothing had ever happened. “Aunt Arya to you, little one.”

Robb smiles widely, then turns to Sansa.

Sansa gently puts Argella down before Robb.

“Hello!” Robb greets eagerly.

“Hi,” Argella says back shyly, tugging at the skirts of her dress. “I like your hair. It’s very pretty.”

Sansa chuckles, and beside her Jon’s lip twitches upwards as well.

“Oh,” Robb says, blinking, slightly taken aback. He regains his footing quickly and compliments back, “I like your name. The Storm Queen, yes?”

Argella bites her lip and nods, eyes wide in wonder.

“Mother, may I take Argella to the godswood?” Robb asks, turning his bright eyes to Sansa.

Sansa glances over to Arya, who nods, and then Robb takes Argella by the hand and rushes her out of the courtyard.

Jon places a heavy hand on her waist, and Sansa forces herself to pull her eyes from the two children and back to her sister.

“You must be tired and hungry, Your Grace,” Sansa says, her smile suddenly feeling much more forced. “I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer your old chambers or guest chambers, so I had both prepared for you.”

Gendry opens his mouth to respond, but Arya beats him to it.

“Guest chambers will be fine, thank you, Your Grace.”

A pit of dread sinks low in Sansa’s stomach, but she ignores it as she turns away, discreetly dropping Jon’s hand from her own.

Argella and Robb become fast friends, and Jon is incredibly pleased by it.

Argella is quite the character, a little body full of dichotomies, and Jon is as surprised and intrigued by her as he is by Robb. She’s very pleasant, and extremely well mannered – reminding him of his wife, truthfully, but without the need to prove herself different to her siblings that had marked a rather cruel streak in Sansa as a child. Argella also has a sharp wit, however, and while she never turns it on he or Sansa, and rarely onto her parents, she has no issue tearing Robb to shreds. She’s not cruel, she doesn’t make fun of him, but she see’s through his attempts to impress her and has no compunction about putting him into place.

She teases him constantly, and one night Jon tucks Robb into bed after reading him a story, and he asks whether he’s getting along with Argella.

“I like her,” Robb says quickly, easily, without needing to think about it. “She’s funny.”

“She is,” Jon agrees. He wonders how to ask how Robb has been reacting to Argella’s strong personality, whether he’s feeling a boyish need to impress her and prove himself. There’s no _innate _issue with such a thing, not at eight years old, but bad behavior starts young and the last thing Jon wants is for Robb to be crafted into a man and King that can’t handle someone telling him when he’s wrong.

“She’s very different,” Robb says thoughtfully, nuzzling his face into his pillow. “I like it though. She disagrees me with me a lot, but she’s not mean to me.”

That probably answers Jon’s unspoken question well enough.

“She makes a good sister, then?” Jon asks, mouth curling up into a smile.

Sansa struggles with their inability to have another child, and Jon certainly does as well, but not like she does. Sansa longs for a big family, and in the dark of night Jon wishes they could have had more children as well, but he doesn’t want it so badly that he would get Sansa with child _knowing _she’d be so likely to die from it. What truly saddens him, however, is the resentment Sansa harbours for herself over her inability to have another child. Jon would _never _think such a thing, would never even _contemplate _blaming her, and he hates that Sansa does. He’s tried so hard, for so many years, to convince her that their situation is out of their control, that there is nothing Sansa could have done differently, that they’re just unlucky. Sometimes she believes him, sometimes she doesn’t, but Jon isn’t foolish enough to believe that her grief will every _truly _go away.

When he’d been younger, Robb hadn’t helped. As a small child he’d spoken often and freely about how much he wanted a sibling, and while Jon has been able to convince Robb to stop asking his mother, Robb is still just a little too young to understand the hurt that he unknowingly inflicts when he makes a sly comment about siblings.

Jon has been able curb a lot of his comments by talking about it as openly as possible with his son when it’s just the two of them, and for the past few moons since Arya said she was coming, that has been by saying Argella could be a sister (rather than a betrothed, which, truthfully, was a comment that Jon didn’t ever think much on again after his conversation with Robb that day in the godswood; a careless misstep he would come to regret over the years, as things play out the way they do).

“Sister?” Robb says, furrowing his brows. “Oh. Aye. I suppose. I don’t know, she doesn’t feel like a sister.”

“You’ve not known her very long,” Jon says amicably, ruffling Robb’s hair. “Give it some time.”

(This moment, too, Jon comes to regret. It was the earliest sign that Robb and Argella were not falling into the relationship everyone expected them to, and he likes to think that if he had _known _what would later happen, then he might have made the decision to either encourage or discourage a familial relationship between the two).

“When are they leaving?” Robb asks, turning onto his back to look up at Jon with imploring eyes.

Jon sighs. “Shortly, I think. A fortnight, perhaps.”

Jon isn’t even sure they’ll stay that long. He and Arya have hit a tentative stride, an ability to pointedly ignore what had transpired between them by _never _talking about their respective partners, but it’s tenuous and uneasy and Jon is finding it harder and harder to stop himself from taking Sansa’s hand, or putting his hand on her knee under the table, or giving her a chaste kiss when he enters or leaves a room.

And he’s finding himself more and more resentful that he has to.

Sansa and Arya, however, have not managed to repair their relationship at all. They’re not frosty, not cold, but Jon knows his wife well enough to know that Sansa is quickly losing her patience with Arya’s not-so-hidden glares, or her sparse-but-still-there snide comments. The real issue between Sansa and Arya is that they have nothing common.

While Jon is much a culprit as Sansa is to Arya, they’ve been able to mend their relationship slightly because he and Arya can spend hours upon hours sparring together in the training yard, silently or not, but still putting in time that naturally becomes companionship. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that they’d been so close as children.

But Sansa and Arya have only one thing in common, and that is that they’re both Queens. But even that has proven to be a point of contention between them, because their type of ruling is so different that anytime Sansa brings Arya along in her daily duties, it ends with Sansa coming to him so frustrated she’s either in tears, or she demands he release some of her tension by fucking her against a wall and making her come apart as many times as he can manage in the short amount of time they have.

Gendry has found himself awkwardly in the middle of it all, having formed a tentative relationship with Jon and Sansa ten years ago, during the Wars, but not wanting to anger his wife over a friendship that had never truly taken root. He spends a lot of time alone, running his Kingdom from afar, trying hard not to become too involved in the mess of the last of the Stark’s.

“When will they be coming back?” Robb asks. “Or maybe we can go to them? We _never _leave the North, and Argella says that Storm’s End is amazing.”

Jon isn’t sure they’ll come back. It will be all too easy for Arya to deny coming North again, citing an ability to make the time to travel for so long. And Robb is very correct in saying they never leave the North; they’ve travelled once to the Riverlands, and once to the Vale, for the coronations of Edmure and Robin almost a decade ago, but since then they’ve not stepped a foot south of their border.

Jon has almost as little desire to go as far south as Storm’s End as Sansa does.

But he would. For Robb.

“I’m not sure,” Jon says truthfully. “But even if we don’t see them again for a little while, you can write letters to Argella if you miss her.”

“I don’t think she knows how to write. Or read.”

She’s only five. That’s probably true.

“This won’t be goodbye,” Jon promises, because he’s not sure what to say – but he’ll make sure that that is true. Jon cards his hand through Robb’s hair, then leans down to kiss the top of his head. “Now, get some sleep, alright?”

Robb sighs, but closes his eyes dutifully. “Okay, papa. Sleep well.”

A smile tugs on his lips, and Jon doesn’t even try to fight it. _Gods _he fucking adores his son. Jon gives him another kiss, then stands.

“You too, Robb. And – and please don’t worry about seeing them again, okay?”

“If you say so.”

Jon shakes his head fondly, then retreats from Robb’s room. The door closes quietly behind him, and free from Robb’s clever eyes, Jon purses his lips.

He hopes he hasn’t just made a promise he can’t keep.

(And, ten years later, Jon almost wishes he hadn’t been able to keep it).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story that leads to Arya's animosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, a shorter chapter. pls bear with me over the next couple weeks bc uni is getting a bit crazy so i might only get one more chapter in in the coming weeks, but then i'll hopefully be posting regularly until this is done ;)

Arya’s feet pound beneath her as she tries desperately to push through the fighting to make it to the godswood. Wights scream and claw all around her, and each one she cuts down is only replaced by another, then another.

She’s supposed to be with Bran, she has to get back to him, she’s supposed to be at the Heart Tree protecting him alongside Theon –

The harsh winds bite at her cheeks, and not for the first time Arya wonders what this fight would be like if they were south of the Wall, if it weren’t so bitingly cold. Jon had told her that it wouldn’t matter where they made this stand, whether it be here Beyond the Wall or whether it be even further south than Winterfell; the Night King brings winter and darkness with him.

Bran had been the one to say they needed to fight on this side of the Wall, claiming that he could only defeat the Night King by a Weirwood, saying they needed to fight on this side of the Wall otherwise all of Westeros would be lost. He’d been the one to decide that he and Arya would need to be by the Heart Tree that new Night’s Watch recruits swore their vows by.

Jon had argued fiercely, saying that fighting out the open was a stupid strategy when they had the Wall so close, when they could funnel the large numbers of wights through Castle Black to kill them. But Bran had been adamant, and in the face of his omnipotent knowledge, waging battle north of the Wall had been decided upon.

Arya had been the one who was supposed to be by Bran’s side at the Heart Tree, but they’d seen no battle and she’d marched away in order to join the fighting only slightly ahead, but the battle had been going worse than she’d anticipated and they’d been pushed back quickly and thoroughly and now she has to make her away back to him, but gods she can’t _see _–

The air around her is blurred from the snowstorm, but when she stumbles into the godswood the air in front of her clears, and things go eerily silent. When she glances back over her shoulder, snow still whirls around the clearing, but she’s found herself in a peaceful circle.

It takes her only a moment to realize why.

The Night King spares her barely even a second of a glance, and then his focus is back on Bran, hand around her brother’s throat.

Her battle cry pierces the otherwise still air, but the Night King is faster; he spins on the spot, catching her around the throat. She flips her dagger from one hand to the other and thrusts it into his gut, and it wounds him enough to make him drop her to the ground. Her dagger pokes from his stomach, but she can only choke and gasp for breath, trying to suck in oxygen. Her ragged breathing is the only sound in the clearing: there are no dying moans from the bodies strewn around them, not even from Theon’s mutilated body; the Night King makes no noise despite the wound she’d inflicted upon him making him limp, and even Bran gives her no instructions, makes no pleas to her.

She’s never fought in such silence before, and it chills her almost as much as the blue eyes of the Night King.

Arya pushes to her feet, desperate to get the Night King away from her brother. But Bran catches her eye, and she remembers the strict instructions he’d given her before the battle started.

She had to get him by the Heart Tree, he’d said, at the exclusion of all else, even her life. With no weapon but Needle, which will do her little good, Arya lunges over to the Night King and wrestles him to the ground, the heat of the battle the only thing guiding her. She twists the dagger in his stomach while he reaches for her blindly, trying to push her away.

Arya rips the dagger from his body and plunges it again into his heart; he doesn’t die, oh no, but he does falter, hands lifting to the hilt of the dagger.

Arya scrambles off him, tripping over her feet in her exhaustion and hurry to get to Bran. She thinks she might be weeping, if the burn in her chest is anything to do by, but she can’t feel or hear herself crying. Arya drags Bran’s chair over to the tree, trying desperately to get him there, and when the Night King rises from the ground Arya just about screams from the difficulty and futility of trying to drag Bran through the deep snow of the godswood.

She gets him to the tree just as the Night King reaches them, but Bran doesn’t seem anywhere near as concerned as he should. The Night King lifts Bran from his chair by the throat, and Arya jumps out of the way as he slams her brother to the bark of the tree.

But Bran just smiles, and Arya screams for him, getting to her feet again, trying to pull the Night King from Bran. Bran’s face is starting to go red, lips blue, but then he lifts his hands and simply places them against the Night King’s face. His face burns beneath Bran’s touch, and his mouth opens in a harrowing scream, and there’s steam or maybe smoke rising from his face – the Night King stumbles away from Bran, her brother dropping completely to the ground.

Arya doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t know what to do, but Bran has fallen unconscious and the Night King is writhing on the ground, screaming and clutching at his face. The smoke is spreading over his whole body, but Arya leaves him to die, instead crawling over to her brother.

Bran’s hands are smoking as well, profoundly burnt, and even when Arya desperately tries to hold snow to his burning hands it does nothing. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing only feebly, shallowly, and this can’t be it, this just can’t be the way it ends, because she’s spent _years _without her family, trying to work her way back to them, but now Bran is laying before, and she doesn’t know what to do.

“ARYA! BRAN!” Jon’s shout cuts through the air, and when she looks up she sees that the storm has stopped, a melted patch of snow where the Night King used to be.

“JON!” Her voice cracks half way through his name, and she tries to catch her breath around her gasps so she can shout for him again.

Jon comes rushing into the clearing, sprinting over to them and sliding through the snow.

“What happened?” he demands, frantically reaching for her and Bran.

“I don’t – I don’t _know_!” she says, frustrated and scared and wishing she had something more to tell him. “He just – he put his hands on the Night King and he killed him but he’s – I don’t know, Jon, he won’t wake up!”

Jon gathers a scoop of snow in his hand and presses it to Bran’s face. It melts almost immediately, and Bran doesn’t wake, and Arya’s heart seizes in her chest.

In the end, any effort between she and Jon is futile, because the burns just keep spreading and Bran doesn’t wake up.

When Bran’s chest finally stills, Arya feels like her whole world stops, like everything splits in two, like she will never be whole again. She was supposed to protect him, she wasn’t supposed to lose any more of her family, Bran, her baby brother Bran –

Arya doesn’t realize she’s sobbing until Jon’s arms close around her, pulling her against his chest and trying desperately to comfort her even though he’s falling apart as well.

They have hardly any time with Bran before others enter the clearing, and one second she’s sitting in the shadow of the weirwood, and then she blinks and suddenly she’s back at Castle Black, and then it’s the next day. Jon gets her atop a horse, and they ride alongside each other, but like the past day Arya remembers hardly any of the journey.

Her mind starts to become clearer once Winterfell is within sight, almost a fortnight later. The prospect of seeing Sansa again, after moons of fighting, brings Arya back to her senses. She’s missed Sansa’s kind touch, and the gentle intimacy they’d started to build up since Arya returned. Arya has felt closer than ever to her sister since she and Arya and Jon had masterminded Littlefinger’s downfall, and Arya longs to see her again.

Arya spurs her horse onward, eager to enter the gates of Winterfell.

Gendry trots up beside her, calling her name. “Hey, you alright?” he asks.

Arya nods, keeping her eyes on her home. “Aye, yes, I’m alright. I just want to get home.”

“Go on, then,” he encourages. “If you go fast enough you might even catch up to Jon.”

Arya smiles over to Gendry, then moves her horse from the procession so she can gallop back to the castle. She gets there after Jon, but the stableboy informs her that she’s only just come in behind him. Arya quickly hands over the reigns of her horse, and rushes into the castle. She’s sure that Jon will be with Sansa, and Arya wants to reunite with them herself. She wants Sansa to hold her, and she wants Jon to ruffle her hair, and she wants to pretend like her heart hasn’t broken with the death of another brother.

The corridor to Sansa’s solar seems endless as Arya makes her way down it. As she gets closer, however, she hears her brother and sister speaking in fevered tones. Arya’s steps slow as she makes out what they’re saying.

“Gods, Sansa, I missed you so much, I never want to leave again –“

“ – no, please, stay with me forever, I missed you too –“

She hears the legs of a table scrape against the stone, once, twice, and Arya’s brows furrow.

The door is cracked open just slightly and she hesitates outside it, wondering if she should interrupt what is obviously a very heartfelt reunion, but then a deep moan breaks through the air and suddenly something cold and icy cracks through her heart.

They are not. They’re _not. _They can’t be.

Arya see’s her hand push against the door, even though he doesn’t want to, no, stop, stop, she doesn’t need this question answered, she doesn’t want to see this, _they’re brother and sister, _they can’t be, they aren’t, why is she still opening the door?

She feels sick to her stomach as they’re revealed to her, Sansa’s dress hitched up and her legs wrapped around Jon’s waist, whose head is lowered to her neck as he ruts furiously into her, still speaking his desires and wishes to her.

Arya thinks she might be about to throw up. She can’t move, she can’t speak, but they’re still going and she’s still watching and Arya isn’t sure she’s ever been so disgusted by two people in her life.

Sansa catches sight of her before Arya can think of what to do. Sansa gasps loudly, eyes widening comically large, and she pushes against Jon’s shoulder as she shouts, “Arya!”

Jon stumbles away from Sansa, fumbling with his breeches while Sansa hurriedly pulls her dress down.

The ice has melted away, now, but nothing has replaced. Instead Arya just feels empty, like a shell of a person. She feels adrift, like she’s floating away from her body, and it’s only Sansa’s warm hands on her face that brings her back.

Those hands had just been on Jon.

Suddenly Arya snaps back into herself, her shock disappearing, and her senses are overcome by what she’s seeing and smelling and hearing. Arya rips herself out of Sansa’s grip, her feet quickly moving her away from her siblings. Jon shuffles nervously, Sansa’s brows are pulled down in worry, and the room reeks of sex, and when Jon tries to say, “It’s not what you think,” Arya explodes.

“Not what I think!” she demands harshly, her hand impulsively tightening around Needle. “How could it not be what I think! I _saw _you, I _heard _you –“

“ – No, Arya, Jon isn’t our brother, it’s alright – “

“Alright?” Arya repeats, voice scratching as it rips from her throat in her fury. “I don’t care what you think of him, he _is _our brother by blood, and you – you’re _fucking _your brother like a Lannister or Targaryen!”

“Arya, please, just listen,” Jon tries to say, reaching out for her.

Arya stays out of his reach, her hand so tight around Needle her knuckles ache.

“Bran just –“ Arya sucks in a harsh breath, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest, but she pushes on. “Bran just _died. _Our brother just died, and you dishonor his memory this way? Our family this way? It’s _sick, _you’re sick! And gods, for what, a quick welcome home fuck?”

“Arya, please, it isn’t like that, I love her,” Jon pleads, while Sansa says, “Arya, stop, he’s not our brother, I swear it.”

“Stop it, stop it!” Arya shouts, covering her ears with her hands. She doesn’t want to hear this anymore, she doesn’t want to listen to them, she doesn’t want to _be _here.

Arya flees from the room, shouting at them both to leave her alone as they try to follow her. Not until she’s back in her room, throwing what little belongings she has into a bag does she realize she intends to leave. She pauses, wondering if she’s truly going to leave Winterfell again, if this is enough to drive her from her childhood home.

There’s a knock on her door, and once she sees who’s there she almost slams the door in Jon’s face. She would have, if his hand didn’t catch the wood before she got the opportunity.

His gaze immediately alights on the bag atop her bed. “You’re leaving?” he asks.

Arya scoffs. “I’m not staying while you two are – are – gods, Jon, how _could _you?”

“Arya, please, would you let me explain?”

Arya exhales, then moves out of his way so he can come in. She closes the door behind them, louder than needed, and then pointedly goes back to filling her bag while Jon takes a tentative seat at the bare desk.

“Sansa tells the truth,” Jon starts. “I’m not your brother.”

Arya clenches her jaw, but doesn’t say anything yet.

“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” he explains softly. “Your aunt Lyanna was my mother.”

A Targaryen, Arya thinks derisively. No wonder he can fuck his sister.

“We’ve known for a while, since Bran came back,” Jon says. Blood suddenly rushes in Arya’s ears. Jon keeps talking, going on about how they never would have come together if they were siblings, and about how he loves her and wants to marry her, but Arya can’t think straight.

Known for a while. They’ve known _for a while. _And they didn’t tell her? They didn’t think she deserved to know? They decided to just keep their little secret between themselves, decided that she, what, couldn’t be trusted to know? That they just didn’t want to tell her?

She and Jon have always been so close, inseperable. As children, it had felt like it was them against the world. And now she apparently isn’t even worth the truth of his parentage even though Sansa is, because what? Because she’s not the _pretty _sister, the sister with which he can – he can –

But Jon’s never been one to lie to her. No, _Sansa _was always the manipulative one, the cruel one.

“Did Sansa say you couldn’t tell me? Is that why you’ve kept it from me for so long?”

Jon’s brows furrow together in that stupid, confused look of his that Arya used to adore. Before she could look at his face and see anything other than the way he’d fucked into his sister. Gods, they’re _siblings. _They might technically be cousins, but they grew up as siblings, they have only recently discovered that they’re not, and Arya genuinely doesn’t understand how they could have so easily fallen into something else.

“No, we – we haven’t told _anyone,” _Jon says. “With Daenerys Targaryen in the process of conquering the south, we thought it best for no one to know. Not until we can deal with the threat she poses. We didn’t want to entice her to come North before the Long Night, and if she’d heard whispers that there was a male heir living up here –“

“Right, so you kept it a secret,” Arya snaps. “I understand that, but why keep it from _me? _Did you think I would go around telling everyone?”

Jon shakes his head, hands clenched together in his lap. “We made a mistake,” he says finally. “We should have told you. I’m sorry, Arya.”

Arya scoffs, throwing an undershirt particularly harshly onto the bed. “That’s it?” she demands. “You made a mistake? You just kept such an important secret from me, fucking _our _sister in secret corners, and all you can say is you made a mistake?”

Jon obviously doesn’t know what to say, but Arya isn’t surprised. There’s about nothing he _could _say to ease her anger, her betrayal.

She tightens the string of her bag, and throws it over her shoulder.

“Are you still leaving?” he asks.

“Are you still fucking Sansa?”

Jon frowns at her. “Arya.”

“I’m going to kill Cersei. And Daenerys. Don’t expect me to come back.”

Jon grunts in distress, reaching for her. “No, Arya, please, don’t. I couldn’t bear it if you died.”

“I’m not going to die,” she informs him, stepping out of his reach. “But I’m not coming back to Winterfell.”

He stops trying to reach for her, shifting from foot to foot as he tries to decide what to do, what to say. “Where are you going to go?”

She shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“Wait, Arya, this isn’t – after everything, you can’t really be going to leave?”

Arya clenches her jaw. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can’t be doing.”

“No, I just meant - . . . you’re my _sister, _Arya. We’ve spent years apart from each other. I don’t want this to be the last time we see each other. Please. Stay, just for a little while.”

It’s his pleading tone that convinces her, more than his words, and when says _fine, _he envelops her in a hug so fierce she’s crushed against him, but she doesn’t even lift her arms. She just lets him hug her, and when he disappears out the door Arya throws her bag onto her bed and screams so loudly she can’t believe that no one comes rushing in.

She stays for several moons, long enough to see Jon announce his parentage, long enough to watch him marry Sansa. It’s the day after their wedding that she leaves. She may have stayed, but Arya sees very little of them over the moons, avoiding them at all costs. She tries a couple of times to repair the damage they’d done, but each time she sees them next to each other all she can see is the image of them that’s burned into her brain, and each time all she can think is that she’s so ashamed of them, so fucking _angry _at them.

Bran would have wanted her to stay, she thinks, which is the only reason she stays as long as she does. But after they get married, Arya realizes that she can hardly bear it any longer. The ghosts of her past follow her too closely, her father and mother and Robb and Rickon and Bran, the family they were all supposed to be, and each day she stays make her feel like she needs to claw her skin off.

So Arya leaves Winterfell, a scathing comment dropping from her tongue to Sansa and Jon about their relations, and then she did as she first wanted to and goes south to kill Daenerys and Cersei, Gendry by her side.

She see’s Jon and Sansa once, in King’s Landing, when the Kingdom’s are split.

Then she goes to Storm’s End with Gendry, and takes a place as his Queen. She gets word that Jon and Sansa have a son, and instead of disgust, like she’d expected, or elation, like she might once have felt over having a nephew, she just feels nothing.

Three years later she has a beautiful daughter, and while she sends word to each of the Kingdoms, and Jon and Sansa reply back with a heartfelt letter about how much they miss her – no different to the letters they’ve been sending for years, but which have steadily become less frequent as time passes without her responding – and still Arya keeps her promise not to return to Winterfell.

When Arya learns that she’s pregnant again, it’s Gendry that quietly convinces her that it’s time to go back North, time to see her family again. So she writes a letter to the King and Queen in the North, extending a desire to bring Argella to see her family’s home, and Jon and Sansa reply enthusiastically.

And so Arya goes back to Winterfell for the first time since she left.

And _gods _does she come to wish she hadn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the stark's travel down to storm's end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i feel like i shoulda planned this story better bc if i had i would have had the first two chapters as a prologue lel

Robb eagerly takes in every sight that he can, committing it to memory. This far south, he’s seeing things he never had before, hearing things he hasn’t before, smelling things he hasn’t before. He loves _every _second of it.

Robb isn’t stupid; he knows his mother’s anxiety is getting higher the further they travel. He knows his father’s is, too, in response. But Robb has never seen this amount of armed men in one contingent before. He knows that their escort will keep them safe, if they happen to come across any trouble. Which he also knows is unlikely, because he doesn’t even remember the last time there was any sort of inter-Kingdom conflict.

The travel south has been long, moons and moons of travel, because as soon as the other Kingdom’s had learnt than the King and Queen in the North were leaving their lands for the first time fifteen years, they’d each demanded to host his parents.

Father has had Robb stuck close to his side the whole time, teaching him practical knowledge about diplomacy and compromise and trade. When he’s not been with father, then he’s been with mother, out with whichever Queen is hosting them and learning about the people in the other Kingdoms. It’s valuable knowledge, to be sure, and likely one day he’ll be grateful for it.

For now, however, he just wants to get to the Kingdom of the Stormlands.

He remembers Argella fondly, the little memories that he has. Argella and her family had spent about six weeks in Winterfell when Robb was a boy, and the easy camaraderie he’d had with Argella is one that he’s not lightly let go.

But it’s been a long time since he last saw her. Seven years would be a long time even if it weren’t almost half his life. The letters he’s exchanged with her have only started recently, when mother had told him they were going to be travelling to Storm’s End. Even in her letters, he can tell that she’s different, but he is, too. The way she teases him, however, hasn’t changed, and he’s very glad. It’s one of his favourtie things about her, and they’re the parts of her letters that he rereads the most.

He’d brought the letters with him, but they’re tucked safely in his trunk where no one can find them. He’s not about to tell _Mother _that he’d brought them, because she’d smile _way _too much, and he’s not really sure what Father would say. He’d probably tease him, too. Robb doesn’t want anyone to know about the letters. For now, he wants them to be between he and Argella.

Father sidles up beside him, their horses greeting each other by bumping their heads.

“Davos says we’ll be able to see this Keep once we pass this rise,” Father says, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

Robb nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“How have you been finding our travel?” Father asks. “Seeing the different Kingdoms?”

Robb furrows his brow, and for the first time takes his eyes off the horizon to look over at his father.

“I love the North, and I love our Kingdom,” Robb replies slowly. “And I know that you and Mother don’t like the South but . . . it’s rather beautiful. I wish I could see more of it.”

Father looks away for a moment, turning his face away from Robb, but then he turns back, an encouraging smile on his face.

“I’m glad to hear it son,” Father says. “Your mother and I may not like it, but we’ve seen a lot of Westeros. You have the right to see what you want of it, and you don’t need to worry about what we think of it.”

They fall into another silence, and Robb’s attention wavers quickly, even though Father doesn’t move away.

As they reach the top of the hill, Storm’s End comes into view as promised. The Keep is huge, and where Winterfell is short and sprawling, taking up a huge space across the ground, Storm’s End is the opposite. It’s tall and opposing, the walls rising up and hiding the bottom half of the castle.

With the sight of the castle comes the sea as well. They’ve been able to smell the salt on the air for hours now, and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks has started to become more discernable, but they’ve not been able to see it until now.

“Looks like there’ll be a storm to welcome us this evening,” Father says, eyes fixed on the cloud brewing where the sky meets the sea.

Robb agrees with his father’s assessment, but it doesn’t catch his attention, not like the sight of the Keep does.

Argella is going to greet them. He’s going to see her again soon.

“Are you excited to see your aunt and uncle again?” Father questions as they get closer.

Robb frowns. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember much of his aunt Arya and uncle Gendry. Gendry had been nice, he thinks, and he remembers once particular afternoon when he’d asked his uncle to show him how to make a sword and he’d spent hours beside his uncle in Winterfell’s smithy as he’d crafted a blade. He remembers watching his aunt Arya train with that same sword in the training yards, but when he’d eagerly requested her to teach him a couple of tricks with a training sword she’d looked up to his mother and father, who had been watching from the walkway, and politely declined him.

“I suppose,” Robb says, rather vaguely.

“You have two new cousins to meet,” Father says.

Oh. That’s right. He’d definitely known that, remembers the day his aunt’s pregnancy had been announced in Winterfell, remembers when Mother had told him both times a new cousin had been born, and remembers Mother reminding him last night that the new children’s names were Theresa for the older girl and Lyonel for the new babe. He’d momentarily forgotten in his excitement to see Argella again.

“Are you excited to see Argella again?” Father says, trying again to start a conversation with him.

Robb relents this time. “Aye, I remember quite liking her.”

If Father knows of the letters he’s recently shared with her, then he doesn’t say.

“The two of you got on very well,” Father agrees. “You were attached at the hip.”

Robb doesn’t think it was that extreme, but he isn’t sure why he bristles at what his father says.

They fall into silence again, and this time Father doesn’t try to lift it.

As the castle starts to truly loom, Robb falls back with Father, back towards the carriage that houses Mother. Father had offered to ride with her, but she’d wanted the opportunity to do some work. Robb wonders now if today’s hard ride had actually allowed her to get any done.

Their procession enters the courtyard of Storm’s End, and this is now the fourth time he’s entered a capital on this trip. Father helps Mother out of the carriage, and Robb lingers behind them both as they approach their family.

Robb’s gaze is immediately stuck to Argella. His first thought is that she’s grown much taller. A stupid thought, of course, because he has too. She’s still much shorter than him, almost up to her Mother’s height, while Robb is as tall as both his parents now. Her dark hair is still long, the top of it braided back in a style Robb recognizes from the North; her dress, as well, is Stark grey.

He’d forgotten the colour of her eyes. They’re the most startling blue, bright and clear and beaut –

Mother presses her hand to Robb’s elbow and guides him to stand before his aunt and uncle.

“Your Grace,” he greets his uncle, bowing deeply.

He takes his aunt’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, then straightens.

“I believe we agreed last time that Uncle is fine,” Gendry says warmly. “Though you probably hardly remember, you were very small then. You’ve grown into quite a fine young man.”

Robb smiles at the praise, and decides not to mention that he _does _remember but that Mother had said not to say that until granted permission again.

“Thank you, Uncle Gendry,” Robb says.

Aunt Arya puts her hand on Argella’s shoulder and gently prods her forward.

“You remember Robb, don’t you?” Arya asks, smiling down at Argella.

Robb’s heart skips in his chest. He hadn’t thought that she might not remember him. She was so young when they first met, and – no, wait. _She _was the one who sent _him _the letter two moons ago. She has to remember him, if she wrote to him to express her excitement over meeting him again.

Argella mustn’t have told her parents about the letters, either.

“Of course,” Argella says, grinning widely. She drops into a curtsey, as perfect as he remembers from her, and he bows in response, feeling his stomach swoop as he does.

Hm. Odd.

“Princess Argella,” Robb murmurs, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles.

The smile she gifts him makes his heart flutter in his chest, and for a brief moment he wonders if he can hug her.

But Aunt Arya moves to the little girl that grips tightly to Argella’s skirts.

“This is Theresa Baratheon,” Arya presents.

Beside him, Mother bends down to greet Theresa, gently taking the small girl’s hand and murmuring a hello to her. Robb shifts out of Mother’s way, and locks eyes with Argella. She’s looking at him, too, and Robb desperately hopes that the heat that spreads to his cheeks isn’t noticeable.

She’s really rather beautiful.

“Your son isn’t here?” Mother asks as she stands back up.

Theresa tucks herself back into Argella’s skirts, and Robb pulls a funny face at her, making her giggle and peek at him from behind the fabric.

“No, he sleeps this time of day,” he hears his aunt reply.

Robb pokes his tongue out at Theresa, and this time she hedges around Argella’s dress to look at him properly. He bends down, like Mother did, and holds his hand out.

Theresa places her hand in his, and smiles widely as he dramatically bestows a kiss on her hand. Argella crouches down beside them, rubbing her hand over Theresa’s back.

“Theresa, this is our cousin Robb,” Argella introduces softly.

“Hello,” Theresa says, tucking some hair behind her ear. Robb finds her shyness adorable.

“He’s the one I said I met in Winterfell, remember?” Argella continues.

“Who taught you about the North?” Theresa asks, looking between he and her sister. “Who played with you in the snow and warmed your fingers when they got cold?”

Robb blinks, surprised Argella remembers that.

“Yes, this is him,” Argella says.

Theresa twists her hand in Robb’s so she’s holding it, and laces her fingers through his. He’s slightly taken aback at how quickly her attitude towards him changes; he wonders what else Argella has told her about him to make her so enthusiastic already.

“Can I show you around the castle?” Theresa asks, bouncing in excitement.

Robb looks up to his Mother, seeking her approval, and she nods to him, a small smile playing on her lips. Argella stands and quietly goes to Aunt Arya’s side, presumably to ask permission as well. She returns, smile in place, and then takes Theresa’s other hand.

“We’ll both show him, alright?” Argella says.

Robb stands, eyes caught on her long hair as Argella twirls around and leads them inside Storm’s End.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa feels awkward at the welcome feast. Robb and Argella make an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i think i've finally got a handle on this story. maybe haha. 
> 
> but the majority of my assessment is done, so hopefully i'll be able to update this much more frequently.

Sansa feels unimaginably awkward at the welcome feast. Jon stays close to her side, though she’s unsure whether that’s to alleviate her discomfort or his own. It’s a relief nonetheless.

Robb sits to her other side, but he’s been noticeably quiet this evening. He’d told her that he’d had a good time with Argella and Theresa, but his mind has been wandering all afternoon. He’s a quiet child naturally, but he’s never been inattentive. She’s already resolved to talk to him about it tomorrow, when she can get him in a private and discuss it, just the two of them.

For now, though, she keeps one eye on him as she has a stilted conversation with her sister.

“How old is he now?” Sansa asks, as if she doesn’t know. She remembers the missive sent out by Arya announcing her third pregnancy, and she remembers when she got the news Arya’s son had been born, closely followed by an invitation to come south to Storm’s End to meet him.

After how poorly Sansa had taken the news of Arya’s second pregnancy, which had resulted in Arya and Gendry and Argella leaving Winterfell sooner than they’d planned, Sansa had decided to put aside her own misgivings about leaving the North and come to meet her second niece and new nephew.

“Almost seven moons,” Arya responds, shifting Lyonel in her arms.

If it were anybody else, Sansa would likely reach over to run her forefinger down the babe’s nose. But it’s Arya, and no matter that she’s her sister, their relationship has been strained for more years than they were close, and so it would almost be worse than doing it to a stranger’s child.

“He’s very quiet,” Sansa says.

Arya doesn’t say anything for a moment, then says with a tentatively teasing voice, “Who would have thought that it was the boy who would give me the least trouble?”

Sansa’s chuckle feels less obligatory than it might have otherwise, and she leans her elbow on the armrest to get nearer to her sister, as if sharing a secret.

“Robb was quiet, too,” Sansa confesses, a lighthearted smile playing on her lips. “Perhaps the men in our family are just predisposed to sullenness? When he was first born, Robb would sit in Jon’s arms with the same expression that Jon had as a chi - . . .”

Sansa clears her throat, immediately trying to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence that descends upon them both rapidly. Perhaps she should have known not to say something like that, should have caught herself before, but she’s unused to having to do so. The last time she had to watch what she said about Jon was . . . when Arya was in Winterfell several years ago.

It hadn’t ended so well then. Sansa had about lost her mind from denying herself, but ultimately it had been Jon who’d decided that they shouldn’t have to act differently around each other just because Arya was there. Not long after that, Arya had told them she was pregnant with a second child, and Sansa had been so taken aback that the congratulatory smile she’d plastered on her face had being unconvincing to everyone. Sansa had spent the night in Jon’s arms, trying desperately not to cry about their own inability to have another child, and when they’d come down to break their fast Arya had told them that she and Gendry would be returning to Storm’s End preemptively.

Sansa hates this. She hates how awful her relationship with Arya is. The way their relationship has devolved is so much worse than what had been between them as girls. Back then it had been petty, it had been difficulties between their personalities, it had been girlhood drama because the two of them were so different.

But this . . . there is little Sansa regrets more than the way Arya found out about she and Jon. There are so many mistakes she made as a child, even more grievous ones that she made in King’s Landing, but at least then she had the excuse of being a sheltered child with little real world experiences and no understanding of the consequences that could befall her actions. What happened with Arya . . . she should have known better. She and Jon should never have thought they could keep Jon’s parentage a secret, and they should have been more discreet about their relationship while it had still been to no one’s knowledge.

Arya juts her chin and turns away from Sansa, rocking Lyonel in her arms. Sansa shifts back away from Arya, sitting back in her chair. Underneath the table, Jon takes her hand, his thumb smoothing against her wrist.

She turns to him, squeezing his hand, her lip slightly downturned.

“Do you want to dance?” Jon asks.

She’s never sure how it’s possible, but Sansa adores him more and more every day.

“Yes, please,” Sansa says, standing from her seat at the high table.

Jon stands as well, and Sansa murmurs their pardon from the high table to Arya and Gendry. There are several people dancing already, though not the enthusiastic dances they partake in in the North. It’s more subdued, but Sansa isn’t sure she would have said yes if she’d had to remember the complex steps of a Northern dance.

Jon sets her against his chest, hands comfortably on her waist, and Sansa rests her head against his shoulder. When they gently spin around, Sansa sees that Robb is no longer sitting at the high table. She lifts her head from Jon’s shoulder, looking around the room.

“What are you looking for?” Jon asks, fingers squeezing her waist.

“Robb,” Sansa answers, eyes still scanning the parts of the hall she can see.

“Oh, he’s over there with Argella,” Jon says, jutting his chin towards the far corner of the hall.

Sure enough, when she turns her head, Sansa see’s the two of them sitting together in a quiet corner of the hall. Argella seems to be talking, while Robb listens on with rapt attention, eyes a little wide and cheeks a little pink.

Sansa knows Robb better than anyone in the world. She’s his mother, of course she does. She knows the signs of her son with a crush, and from the looks of it this one is sure to sweep Robb off his feet.

Sansa hides a smile, and rests her head back against Jon’s shoulder.

“What?” Jon questions, more than a hint of amusement lining his voice.

“Oh, nothing,” Sansa replies. “Robb is supposed to be with you and Gendry tomorrow?”

“Aye,” Jon says, slowly and cautiously, because after all these years he knows when she’s up to something. “Why?”

“I think we should let him have the day to himself, don’t you?” Sansa suggests. “He’s worked very hard on the ride here. Let him reconnect with Argella.”

Jon pauses for a moment, obviously unsure what she’s getting at, but shrugs quickly after. “Alright. That’s fine with me.”

The last few days have been a blissful haze, but Robb would never admit that to anybody.

Except maybe to Argella, if she asked.

But he’d probably tell her anything that she wanted to know.

Her hand is currently hooked through his elbow as she leads him through the castle, and despite the fact that this is about the fifth time they’ve taken a turn about the Keep since he arrived a week ago, he feels just as lightheaded as he did the first time.

Robb didn’t really expect to spend so much time with Argella, but every time he asks Mother and Father what they want him to do for the day, Mother tells him to spend the day doing what he wishes. Robb isn’t going to question it, despite the fact that Father spent a lot of the trip down here detailing the numerous things they would be doing.

“Have you found someone to marry yet?” Argella asks abruptly, her hand tightening slightly around his bicep.

When he looks down at her, she’s not looking up at him and instead out over the horizon. The ocean looks particularly beautiful today, the sun glinting off the blue water and creating a vision than shimmers more than sun on snow. Robb is suddenly struck with the thought that even the most beautiful vista holds nothing to his cousin.

“No,” he answers finally. “Though it’s not for lack of trying on the Northern Lord’s part. Mother and Father keep saying that they’re not going to organize a betrothal, but it hasn’t stopped the Lords coming to Winterfell and touting their daughters.”

Argella glances up at him, her face unreadable for a moment, and then she looks back out to the sea for a long minute.

“It’s much the same here,” she says finally. She pulls her arm from his, then leans her back against the guardwall. The wind from the sea blows her hair over her shoulders, and with the sun behind her back she looks like a goddess. Robb swallows harshly as he tries to listen to what she’s saying. “Mother refuses to even entertain Lords who are coming with the intention of marrying their son’s off to me. But Lords will come under the guise of petitioning, and it’s fairly obvious that they’re really just here in the hopes that I fall wildly in love with their son and run away with him.”

Robb feels distinctly uncomfortable at the notion, but he’s not sure why.

“A load of bollocks, if you ask me,” Argella continues, rolling her eyes, “because as _if _I’d fall in love with one of these peacocks. Southern men aren’t for me, I think.”

Robb comes to lean against the wall beside her, and bumps his shoulder against hers.

“You want a rugged Northman?” he teases.

She turns and grins up at him. “Why, do you know any?” she asks, her tone sweet and saccharine.

“Oh, no, we’re all peacocks in the Northern Court as well,” he replies, grinning as well.

Argella laughs, and Robb thinks he’d like to hear that sound forever.

“And do they all have such quick wit?” Argella asks, turning her face up to him.

Robb’s laughter dies in his mouth as his eyes sweep over her face. “No,” he says, voice suspiciously lodged in his throat, “no, that’s just me.”

She goes quiet as well, and Robb wonders what’s happening. He knows what it feels like, but what it feels like couldn’t possibly be true. At least not on her end. There’s no way she looks upon him, her cousin, and see’s something more than family.

Argella turns in her place, spinning around to look out over the ocean. Robb takes her distraction as an opportunity to take a deep breath and get such thoughts out of his head.

She doesn’t make it easy, however, when she says, “I wish I could just marry you. You’re so kind, and not at all pretentious like these men. It would take away so much pressure, don’t you think? I’d even come North, you know. I loved Winterfell, and I would love to live there. I would come and be your Queen, and Theresa can inherit the Storm Crown.”

Robb’s mouth parts in surprise as he stares down at her.

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” he says finally, when his brain is working again.

She shrugs, looking much more nonchalant that he feels. “Oh, I have. After I sent you that first letter a few moons ago, I was visited by this little lordling that was . . . oh Robb, I couldn’t even describe him to you. He was awful. And then that afternoon I got a letter from you, and I just thought that you are so much nicer than he is. And then we’ve been getting to know each other again these last few days, and I’ve only been thinking about it more.”

Robb takes another big swallow, and then slowly turns himself around so he’s looking out over the sea as well.

“Before you first came to Winterfell, our master, Samwell, said that a betrothal between you and I would have been fortuitous,” Robb says slowly, refusing to look down at her.

Argella doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then she says, “Well, it’s decided then. I’ll just marry you.”

She must be joking. There’s no way that she truly thinks that, even if he kind of wants her to be being serious.

“How about this,” Robb proposes, because he doesn’t know if she’s joking but what if she’s not? “Next time I see you, if we both remain unwed, we’ll marry each other.”

Argella finally turns to face him fully, and Robb takes a deep breath and then turns to look down at her as well. She looks up at him, eyes scanning his face much too keenly, and he still can’t be sure whether she was joking before but now she looks as serious as he feels.

“Alright,” she agrees quietly. “Next time. But I’m going to hold you to that.”

Argella takes his arm again, fingers clenching tightly around his bicep, and as she continues to lead them around Storm’s End she doesn’t remove her hand even once.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa laughs and lightly pushes against Jon’s shoulder as he nips at her collarbone.

“Again?” she teases, raking her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Alright, I let you sleep between the last round and now,” Jon pouts, kissing her jaw. “And besides, I’m laying the blame for this on you. If _you _hadn’t been relieving Robb of his duties I wouldn’t have to have taken them and I wouldn’t have been so tired these past weeks.”

“This is your first chance to catch up on your sleep, and instead of doing that you’ve woken me up in the middle of the night for a fuck?”

Jon lifts up from her, an exaggerated frown on his face. “Uh, _no,” _he says. “We did that earlier. I’d rather make love to my wife, if that’s alright with you.”

“Well, that depends,” Sansa says, putting on a faux thoughtful expression. “Is there another wife around here that you meant instead?”

“Aye, she’s hiding under the bed. I’ll just quickly get her –“

Sansa laughs again and grabs his biceps, stopping him from moving off of her.

“Jealous of my second wife, huh?” he asks, digging his fingers into her side and tickling her, prompting giggles to burst from her lips.

“Hey, no, stop, stop, we have to be quiet!” she says, covering her mouth with one hand and trying to push him away with the other.

“You know I like you loud,” he murmurs, bending his neck to mouth at her jaw.

Sansa purses her lips, looking up to the ceiling as if in thought, and struggles to keep her whimper locked in her throat as Jon tugs on her earlobe with his teeth.

“Well, how about –“

Sansa pushes against him, then leans over him to grasp the top of the sheet. She pulls it up and over his head and hers, enclosing them underneath it and dimming the candlelight.

Jon blinks, slightly startled, and then he softens, and little smile playing on his lips.

Sheet over his head and loose curls brushing over his face, Sansa is overcome with a flood of emotion that she should be used to by now but which she isn’t. His beard and hair are greying, and there are lines etched around his eyes and forehead, but despite the years that have passed by, and the hardships they have endured in that time, she loves him more today than the day she married him.

Jon props one elbow beside her head, and cups her jaw with his other.

“Gods I love you,” he whispers, then bends his head to catch her lips in a slow and sweet kiss.

Sansa practically melts into the mattress, lighting her fingertips up his arms as he kisses her, deep and leisurely.

He presses into her slowly, kissing her all the while, and Sansa peaks while he whispers how much he loves her into her hair; he follows soon after, while Sansa murmurs how much she loves him.

Afterwards, he pillows his head between her breasts and drums his fingers against her waist.

“It’s really hot under here,” Sansa says eventually, tugging on the ends of his curls.

Jon chuckles and kisses one of her breasts, which immediately distracts him. He kisses his way up her skin and then closes his mouth around her nipple, flicking his tongue in the way that always makes her moan. It does so now, but she catches him around his neck before he can go any further.

“We really need to sleep,” she tells him, giving him a quick kiss.

“I am . . . a little tired,” he admits.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sansa says, rolling her eyes. She pushes the sheet down, and Jon settles in beside her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“So you’re finished with your little plan, then?” Jon asks, nuzzling into her neck.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa replies, a smirk lifting up her mouth. “But, yes, it’s about time Robb gets back to his duties. We’ll be leaving in a few weeks anyway.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” Jon asks, but this time she can hear sleep thick in his voice.

“Sure,” she agrees easily, already knowing how unlikely it is that he’ll remember what she says from experience. “Robb is definitely falling in love with Argella.”

“His cousin Argella?” Jon mumbles.

Sansa pokes him in his side, and he grunts a little, but hardly really moves. Oh, yeah, he’s going to be asleep any second.

“I don’t think _you _get to say anything about that, mister oh-gods-I’ve-fallen-in-love-with-my-sister.”

“_Half_-sister,” he corrects.

“Cousin, I think you’ll find,” she returns.

“I wasn’t even . . . she’s a sweet girl . . .”

Sansa pitches her voice slightly lower, running her hand over the top of his head. “Aye, I think they’d do well together. She’s kind, but she has a very strong will about her. Robb needs that, I think. He wouldn’t do so well with someone as quiet as he is.”

Jon has started to snore softly before she’s even finished the sentence.

Sansa smiles, and runs her hand over his curls several more times. He’s so predictable.

And she loves him all the more for it.

Robb wakes up to soft but insistent knocks on his door. He rubs his eyes with his fist while he opens the door, trying to hide his yawn.

Argella and Theresa stand in the doorway, Argella with a mischievous grin and Theresa giggling into her hand, hiding in the skirts of Argella’s woolen nightdress.

“What time is it?” Robb asks, voice sluggish and heavy with sleep.

Argella shrugs. “Unsure. We have something to show you.”

Robb stares at them both, not quite sure if she’s being serious. The silence stretches on, and neither Theresa nor Argella say anything more, and so it’s left to him to relent.

“Alright, fine. Do I need to change?”

“No,” Argella replies, “but get your cloak. It gets cold on the beach this time on night.”

“The _beach?” _he repeats, voice going slightly higher. He clears his throat, trying to play it off. “Surely you’re not serious. We can’t leave the castle walls in the middle of the night.”

“Sure we can, there’s a passage from the –“

“Sorry, let me rephrase. We _shouldn’t _leave the walls this time of night.”

Theresa laughs into her hand again, and Robb gets the distinct feeling that she’s laughing at him. He narrows his eyes down at her, overdramatic to be sure, but she only laughs again.

Argella shrugs again. “Bring your sword if you’re so worried. Trust us though, we’ve done this before.”

Robb doesn’t feel particularly placated by that, but when he glances down to the basket that Argella is carrying he can see a blanket poking out, as well as a bottle of what is likely wine. Clearly they _have _done this before.

“Alright, give me a moment,” he says, then gently closes the door after she nods.

Moving quickly, Robb pulls on his socks and boots, pulls a tunic over his sleep shirt, then drapes his cloak over his arm.

He hesitates as he moves to open the door, looking back at his untidy bed. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, or how long they’ll be, and if his mother comes in in the morning and he isn’t here . . .

Robb scribbles out a note and puts it on his pillow, and then stares at his sword for several long moments. He bites his lip, then grabs it and buckles it around his waist, and finally opens the door again.

“You took forever,” Theresa announces.

“No need to point it out,” he says, smiling down at her. “Lead the way.”

Theresa rolls onto her stomach, giggling into her hands as she looks over at him.

“You’re so silly,” she tells him. “Tell me the truth! Who’s the best person you’ve met here so far?”

“I did tell you the truth,” Robb says, trying to keep a straight face. “That stable boy was very sweet, and he gave Darling a sugar cube. The best person I’ve ever met in my life, I’d even say.”

Theresa pouts and pokes him in his cheek, while Argella props her head on her palm and raising a brow.

“_Darling_?” she teases. “That’s what you named your horse?”

Robb clears his throat and looks up to the sky.

“Are you _blushing_?” Argella gasps. “Oh gods, you have to tell us the story now.”

Theresa rises onto her knees, laughing in delight. “Tell us, tell us, tell us!” she chants.

“It’s really nothing crazy,” he says. “It’s just – Father calls Mother that, and when I was younger I asked him why and he said . . . he said that that’s what you call people you love. And I love Darling so . . .”

Theresa coo’s, grasping her hands together and letting out a big _aww. _

Argella, on the other hand, teases him like he knew she would. “I don’t think he meant it quite like that.”

“Well I know that _now_,” Robb says, sighing with fake exasperation.

Theresa collapses on Robb’s chest, laughing wildly, and his breath expels in a big huff. “I love you _darling,” _she says, draping herself over him. “I love you, darling, I love you!”

Her giggling sentence morphs into a song, which is just the same four words over and over, but she distracts herself endlessly with it, even pushing up from his chest so she can dance around the blanket and croon it to the moon.

“That was actually a kind of cute story,” Argella admits.

Robb turns away from watching Theresa and to Argella, who is looking at him without the humour he expected. He swallows harshly, unsure what the expression on her face is.

“I – I suppose,” he mutters, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

“Your parents are very in love,” Argella continues.

“So are yours,” Robb counters.

“They are,” she agrees quietly. “But theirs is a different kind. They’re well suited, and they certainly understand each other. They made a family of each other. Their love is passionate, and consuming, but it isn’t . . . your parents are devoted and adoring, and so sweet and gentle. I don’t think they could live without each other.”

“I don’t think one is better than the other,” Robb says slowly. “They’re both still love.”

Argella stays quiet a long moment, laying onto her back and looking up at the sky. Robb follows her lead, staring at the beautiful white crescent of the moon.

“Mum and dad never talked about your parents, or Winterfell,” Argella says finally. “And when they did it was always so . . . I don’t know. The most I learnt about them was in my history classes when talking about the Long Night and such. I half believed that they were just some fantastical pair that didn’t truly exist. But then I met them, and they’re about the kindest people I’ve ever met. And the _way _that they love each other . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Robb stays quiet, staring up at the moon. He’s never really thought about what other people might think of his parents, of how they love each other. He’s never really thought that there were different types of love, like what Argella is saying, but he supposes the only real example he has is his parents. He thinks of himself as a fairly observant person, but this is not exactly his forte, and he’s not really been given much chance to spend time with his aunt and uncle.

Theresa disturbs the contemplative silence by falling down between them again, looking up to the sky as well and slightly out of breath.

“I’m tired,” she announces.

“We haven’t even seen them yet,” Argella says, running her hand down Theresa’s hair. “You can have a little sleep if you want, though. I’ll wake you when they start.”

“When what starts?” Robb asks. He’d thought they’d just come down to see the moon reflect on the ocean.

“Just a little longer, I think,” Argella replies, not at all answering his question.

“Just a little sleep,” Theresa agrees finally, and promptly snuggles into his side.

Robb leans over to pick up his cloak and drape it over her, and Theresa smiles, eyes still closed, and tucks the fur of it under chin.

“We don’t do this very often,” Argella tells him once Theresa is snoring softly against his chest.

“I’d be a bit worried if you snuck out of the castle every night,” Robb jokes.

Argella turns onto her stomach, looking up at the foreboding visage of Storm’s End.

“This place always felt like a prison to me,” Argella mutters, a dark edge to her voice that he hasn’t heard before. “Mum and dad have always been so bloody strict about where I can go and who I can talk to. And I know it’s because of their past but it’s . . . it’s a different time now.”

“Winterfell feels much the same,” Robb admits. He hates to speak ill of his home, of his parents, but it’s a truth he’s always known. He adores Winterfell, and he honestly has no qualms about being the next King, but he does wish he could have seen more of Westeros.

This trip hasn’t really eased that feeling, but it’s not made it worse, either. Mostly he just doesn’t want to leave Argella again.

“Really?” Argella asks, surprised. She stacks her hands under her head, then rests her cheek on them so she can look over at him. “It’s so big, though.”

Robb shrugs. “More things to go wrong,” he says. “So more reason for Mother and Father to keep an eye on me.”

She goes quiet for a long time, likely thinking over his answer. He tries to force his mind to a blank, because he doesn’t really like thinking about this too much. He’s much better off than most, and it always feels trite to complain about something that, on the whole, he wouldn’t change anyway.

“We could run away,” Argella suggests. He knows she’s joking, because of the smile on her face, but his heart still beats slightly faster at the suggestion.

“Where would we go?” he asks, hoping he sounds much calmer than he feels.

“Dorne.”

“Ugh,” Robb immediately scoffs. “Too hot.”

“North of the Wall?”

“Too cold.”

Argella laughs, then stifles it into her hands when Theresa shifts between them.

“Alright, what do you suggest?”

Robb frowns up to the sky. “Um, the Riverlands?”

“Too wet,” Argella says, trying and failing to hide her amusement.

“The Vale.”

“Too mountainous.”

“Oh my _gods, _you’re impossible,” he says, aware she’s just repeating his complaints and failing to hide his own smile. “That’s it, we’re not running away. We’ll just have to stay here forever.”

“In Storm’s End? Can’t we make it Winterfell instead?”

The image of her standing on the walkway and agreeing to marry him comes unbidden to his mind, and he hopes he sounds at least vaguely suave when he says, “Of course, _my queen_.”

“I always thought Queen of Winter has more of a ring to it than Storm Queen.”

Robb chuckles, his skin feeling hot all over, hoping that it’s not manifesting into a blush. “I always thought the opposite.”

“Is this our first fight as betrothed?” Argella gasps dramatically, sitting up to hold her hand over her heart.

“We should just break it off now,” Robb says sagely. “If we can’t agree on this, we’ll never agree on anything.”

“Truer words have never been spoken. If we aren’t betrothed, I best leave though, as what will everyone say to two unmarried children of royalty being unaccompanied on the beach at night?”

“I think you’ll find that we’re accompanied by Theresa.”

“I’m going to take her with me, actually –“

Robb laughs and tries to reach over to grab her wrist as Argella stands, but he jostles Theresa in the process and has to concede defeat.

Argella falls back onto the blanket abruptly, staring up at the sky.

“Shh, be quiet, it’s starting!”

Robb’s mouth drops open, prepared to ask the question of what she’s talking about, but he follows her gaze instead and immediately understands. Across the sky, a white light arcs and dances, swirling around itself like something out of a dream. It’s about the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, aside, perhaps, from the girl who’d brought him out here.

Robb’s always thought himself as bad with compliments and sweet words as his father, but apparently he can be rather poetic when it comes to Argella. Or, at least, he wants to be.

“They don’t come very often,” Argella tells him softly. “But they’ve been out for the past two nights, so I hoped they would come again tonight and I could show you.”

“They’re . . . I’m . . .” He clears his throat, unsure how to describe what he’s feeling right now. He can’t put words to the beauty of the sight, and he’s even less loquacious when it comes to Argella and the way this gesture has made him feel. It’s so simple, to invite him out here, but it implies that she thought about him, that she decided he would like this, and the thought makes him feel a little tingly.

Argella laughs, breathless beside him, then says, “You’re cute.”

Now he’s speechless _and _breathless as well, and suddenly he has the distinct urge to kiss her. Would she let him, he wonders? Surely this all means something. _She’s _the one who keeps up bringing up marriage, and _she’s _the one who seeks him out in the morning and asks if he wants to take a turn about the castle, and she sits with him at meal times even though _technically _she shouldn’t –

Against him, Theresa shifts and blinks her eyes open.

Argella clears her throat, and Robb turns away from her. Theresa yawns, then catches sight of the lights in the sky and lets out a little, rather adorable, gasp.

“Gelly, they started! Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Sorry,” Argella says, and he isn’t sure if he’s imagining that her voice sounds a little strained.

“Gods, Gelly,” Robb teases, unable to help himself. “You should have woken her up.”

Theresa elbows him in the ribs, and Robb gasps in shock at the sharp pain from her pointy little elbows.

“_You_ could have woken me up,” she accuses, though there’s no real heat to her voice because she’s so distracted by the night sky.

“Well I suppose that’s true,” he says, trying not to wheeze.

“Oh how the tables have turned,” Argella says, altogether too smug.

“Alright, how about you –“

Theresa slaps her hands down over both he and Argella’s mouth, one palm over each of them, and says, “Be quiet, you’re ruining it.”

He finds her bossy tone pretty adorable, truth be told, but he thinks that it might make her mad if he said that so he keeps it to himself, smiling against her tiny little hand.

They all lay in silence as the nights goes on, the lights swirling and the stars twinkling above them, and eventually he hears Theresa start to snore against his side again.

With a bravery he got from his Stark genes, Robb whispers, “Tell me a secret.”

Argella stays silent for long moments, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore filling the space between them, and then she says back, “I’m not planning to look for someone else to marry.”

Robb’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest that he’s sure Argella can hear it, and over the rush of blood in his ears he can hardly hear himself say, “I don’t plan to either.”

Through the grogginess of sleep, Robb wakes up to a little voice chirping, “Hi, Uncle Jon!”

_Who’s Uncle Jon? _He first thinks, followed by _wait, who’s talking? _

“Hi Theresa. Did you three spend the whole night out here?”

Oh, _gods. _Robb shoots up, blinking at the sunlight and looking at the blurred image of his father.

“We did!” Theresa confirms, before Robb can tell her not to answer any of his questions. “The night lights came to dance for us, so we were watching them!”

“Father,” Robb greets warily, his eyes finally adjusting to the brightness. He feels completely worn down and sluggish, likely because he and Theresa had only fallen asleep once the sun had started to peek over the horizon, and it can’t really be much later than that now.

“Your mother has been worried sick,” Father tells him, forgoing any greeting. Robb can tell he’s displeased, though he’s fairly sure he’s not angry.

“I left a note,” Robb defends feebly, rubbing his eyes again.

“That’s lucky, too, otherwise this would be a very different conversation,” Father says, his gaze much too sharp and disapproving for this time of morning.

“Ugh, who’s talking so much?” Argella grumbles from the rug, swiping her hand out, likely in an effort to shush the conversation.

“Good morning, Argella,” Father greets, tone flat, but when Robb glances up he can see a hint of a smile on his father’s face.

Argella gasps loudly, scrambling to stand up as she hurriedly says, “Good morning, Your Grace.” Her foot twists in the corner of the rug, and she topples over into the sand.

Robb stares at her, caught between laughing in shock and rendered still by surprise, but Father kneels down before Robb can figure out how exactly to react to the situation.

Father huffs a little laugh, then extends his hands out. “No need for the formalities, Argella,” he says, pulling her up.

“Do Mother and Father know we’re out here?” Argella questions anxiously, smoothing her hair at the back of her head.

“No, just your Aunt Sansa and I,” Father tells her. “Though I think we’re all lucky that Sansa didn’t raise half the castle in her hysterics. Thankfully I found Robb’s note before she got too worried.”

“You left a _note?_” Argella asks, turning a narrow-eyed stare to him.

“Well, thank gods I did!” He retorts, gesturing up at his father. “Otherwise _everyone _would have known that we’d come down here. This isn’t exactly proper, imagine what people would have said!”

“You didn’t have any complaints last night,” Argella snaps, and in between their bickering Theresa tugs on the bottom of Father’s jerkin and says, “They’ve been doing this all night.”

“Have they now?” Father asks, bending down to scoop Theresa into his arms.

“We have not!” The two of them snap at the same time.

“It’s very annoying,” Theresa informs Father rather formally, then lays her head on his shoulder. “Your hair tickles.”

“I usually have it tied up,” Father says, securing her against his hip. “But I didn’t have time this morning.”

Theresa straightens her head and looks at him critically. “You do look very tired,” Theresa observes. “Were you up all night, too?”

Father laughs, then turns his back on Robb and Argella. Argella is still shooting Robb furtive glares as they both bundle up the picnic blanket and food they’d brought.

“Well I wasn’t out watching the stars,” Father says, then clears his throat. “Now tell me all about these lights that were dancing for you?”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Robb mutters as he stuffs the last of their things in the basket.

“Why did you come, then?” Argella challenges.

Robb huffs and secures his sword belt around his hips, trying to put off answering.

“Huh?” she demands. “Why did you come if it was such a bad idea?”

“Because I – I - . . .”

“Yeah? Because you _what?” _

“Because you asked me to!” he snaps finally, running his hand through his hair in agitation. “Look, let’s just – gods, Argella, what are we doing?”

Argella stares up at him, her face unreadable, and he wishes that he’d just kept his mouth shut.

“Okay, fine,” she says, and drops the basket to the ground. “You want to know what I’m doing?”

She bunches the fabric of his tunic in her fists and yanks him towards her, pressing their chests together so tightly his breath expels from his lungs.

“Boys are so stupid,” she mutters, then cups the nape of his neck and presses their lips together.

Robb goes still in surprise, limp against her and unsure what to do. Oh, that’s so silly, he should just kiss her back, he’s wanted to do so since he laid eyes on her again –

Argella pulls away from him and lowers back down onto her feet, and smooths her hands over the crinkles she’s pressed in the fabric over his chest.

“Did I - . . . did you not mean what you said last night?” she asks, biting her lip. “About marrying me?”

His arms circle around her waist of their own accord, and then he’s bent his head and has caught her lips again. Argella melts against his chest, hands flattening against his tunic. Their kiss is tentative, and he thinks that she’s probably as inexperienced as he is, but Robb doesn’t care in the slightest. They take it slow, exploring both each other and what it’s like to kiss and be kissed by another, and when they finally break apart Robb feels like he wants to explode out of his skin he’s so happy.

“I meant it,” he tells her, breath caught in his throat.

“I meant it, too,” she whispers, then tucks her head beneath his chin.

_Dear gods, _Robb thinks, staring up at the towering Storm’s End, _I think I love her. _

“You know, Theresa,” Jon says, making his way up the beach, smiling from the glance over his shoulder at Robb and Argella. “I’ve learnt that my wife is always right. Women are _always _right. Never let your husband tell you otherwise, you hear?”

Theresa scoffs, her little fingers clenched tightly in the wool of his shirt. “You mean you didn’t know that before? Oh, Uncle Jon. You’re so silly.”

Jon chuckles, unable to help looking over his shoulder once more at the embrace Robb and Argella are sharing. Sansa is going to gloat about this for days, he’s sure.

“Perhaps I am, little one,” Jon indulges, starting the walk up the long flight of stairs up to the Keep. “Perhaps I am.”


End file.
